I Played My Fingers Back Into Shape

Sunday Morning

So, What's Your Point??

I woke up by the railroad tracks and went back to sleep once the sun was shining on me and I was able to get into a deeper sleep than the one that I had during the chilly night, when I dreamed that 13 bums had me surrounded and were all making the peace sign in front of their lips, or the universal "give me a cigarette" sign.

I then went to the Shell station on Water Street to use the bathroom and especially to wash the dirt off of my face. Tip #11; If you sleep on a dirty spot; try not to sleep face-down.

The place was crawling with cops; all waiting to clock in at 2 p.m. and start to rack up overtime tax dollars listening to Willie Nelson and Loverboy and occasionally directing out of towners to their vehicles "...We parked next to a huge moon pie suspended by cables..."

I was immediately told to leave my bag at the door (because when there is a cop in every aisle, that's actually the best time to shoplift, because they don't suspect it).

I then walked past the stage where I had heard a very good guitar players notes coming from the night before. I was about a half mile away and didn't want to walk all the way around town to get nearer to the stage to see who it was, figuring that I would just refer to the line-up, which was what I was trying to do.

The roadie/sound man type, who was walking around the lot looking for coins and jewelery on the ground, told me that it might have been Spank The Monkey, The Suzies, or Johnny No that I had been hearing at about that time.

I went on Youtube and sampled the music of all three of them and none of them featured a guitar player who sounded like Jerry Garcia jamming with Widespread Panic; the closest one was the Johnny No guy.

It could be that, from my vantage point, I was hearing his country-flavored  riffs, superimposed over Al Green's gospel-flavored band and the sum of the parts resulted in a composition that is beyond the scope of either artist...that would have been a coincidence but not beyond the realm of possibility at a Bayfest Music Festival.

I ran into a dude on St. Louis Street who addressed me by name, making me feel like I should have know his name, or recognized him or the hat that he is probably still wearing since I last saw him a year ago; but, all I could think of was the end of a movie, shot on location in Mobile, and the credits rolling and "Bum #2" scrolling upward, right before "Grip #1."

He filled me in on some details such as "You cooked us a really good meal on a fire behind CVS; tuna and green peas, or something. It was delicious and I was starving!"

Cathedral Park

I kind of remember that, but I also remember running a bunch of bums away who would be attracted by the smoke and the smell of roasting Ocean Perch, or Red Snapper (never tuna, unless it was a tuna steak, and I would have remembered grilling a tuna steak in Mobile; some things are too sacred to forget...) and would park themselves by me and lick their lips in an attitude of, "Well, lookie here, I was just kicking myself for spending my last dime last night and not leaving myself enough for anything to eat, and lo and behold, I come up on a guy that's just grilling away right in front of me; and it looks delicious! The Lord is good! He must have come across some frozen fish in a dumpster or been otherwise blessed, so, of course he is gonna bless me in return!"

Then, if I were to pull out my pack of smokes: "Hallelujah!"

Or my pint of brandy: "I was blind, but now I see!!"

And so I have had to say something like "This is my dinner. I put on three fillets, because I'm hungry enough to eat three fillets, not one and a half!" ...in expecting me to put your needs in front of mine, aren't you in effect putting your needs in front of mine?!?

But, obviously, this guy had passed the coolness test, with such flying colors that I actually shared one of my red-oak smoked cinder block grill masterpieces with him, that I accepted that as an impressive resume; and I stayed and talked to him.

He handed me a 24 oz. can of Coors Light; still cool from the 55 degree night which made me sleep fitfully and dream about 13 bums surrounding me and asking for cigarettes.

I thanked him and put it in my pack, not wanting to start drinking at noon, which it was.

I recited him a spontaneously improvised poem about that matter, which went something like:

"Start drinking at noon; be buzzed too soon.

Start drinking at One, might not end up fun.

Start drinking at Two; wind up in a zoo (The Metro Jail).

Start drinking at Three by nightfall, can't see."

Terry (as that was his name which I had forgotten) went on to tell me that I had missed a great show when I slept through Willie Nelsons gig, and then again when I missed Pat Benetar (her guitarist, who is also her husband, held up his guitar and said to everbody within a half mile "This is pain. It doesn't play by itself; I have to hurt my fingers to make it play; and it's always feeding back and it's hard to keep quiet -just like a woman!" to which Pat Benetar quipped into her microphone, "So, what's your point?!?" *laughter coursing through the crowd of 50 somethings who actually know who the hell Pat Benetar is*) he said.

Yes, I know that Pat studied opera at Julliard, Terry.

Terry informed me that one of my favorite homeless people in Mobile (one of a group that I can count on one hand) had died. 

R.I.P. Chester.

Chester had just (finally) gotten himself an apartment; moved into it; and then died in it -so, maybe I shouldn't be in such a hurry to get off the street??

So then, I went into Cathedral Park and waited until the start of the Patriots game, and when that was imminent, I went to McDonalds and parked myself in front of one of the TV sets to see how many plays I could watch before being imposed upon to purchase a hamburger.

Well, during the game, Howard arrived, fresh from the library. He had misunderstood the time of the kickoff, not factoring in the one hour difference between the time zone where the Patriots were playing and Mobile, Alabama.

I have been playing pretty well. I can still only play for less than 2 hours before my fingertips start to sting, due to my 45 days of inactivity.

After the game, I sat on Royal Street and played; broke a string and took about 20 minutes to fix it; continued on, and made more money when I had had enough and was putting my guitar in its case, than when I was playing.

People materialized from out of nowhere and asked "Are you calling it quits?" as they handed me money.

The cynic might propose that they were giving me money because I was calling it quits...